The Highlander's Tempestuous Bride (25 page)

“My ma and Tavia taught me much about herb lore. ’Tis a useful thing to know.”

A male voice interrupted. “Might I have a word with ye, Gilda?”

She looked up, surprised to see Conn in the kitchen garden. “Could we sit on yon bench? My back and feet are a bit sore today.”

“Of course, lass. I only wish to discuss a matter with ye.”

Gilda eyed him with mild curiosity. “Whatever it is, ye’d best take it up with my da. I cannae imagine needing my advice on anything.”

“Och, I dinnae think this is something I need to talk to him about. Not yet. This requires yer approval before I approach Laird Macrory. Ye arenae a young maid anymore.”

Gilda stopped in her tracks. “What are ye dithering about, Conn?”

He laughed and motioned for her to take a seat on the wooden bench beneath a sprawling tree. With a skeptical frown, Gilda accepted the offer.

“Weel, what is it? What is on yer mind?”

To her surprise, his smile disappeared and he hunkered on his heels at her feet. Anticipation warred with suspicion inside her as he seemed to gather his thoughts. Finally, he lifted his gaze to her.

“Gilda, I want ye to marry me.”

* * *

Ferlie fingered the thick, ropy scar that curved along the side of his head. Partly hidden beneath his hair, it still ached from time to time, serving as a reminder of a past he could not recollect. His knowledge began and ended with the wound, long since healed, but setting him apart from the men around him.

What did Greum mean, I am stamped with the eyes of the Macraig? Am I part of the Macraig clan?
He thumped his thighs with fists clenched in frustration. Why could he not remember?

He closed his eyes, pushing to recall the day he woke aboard the pirates’ ship. Pain exploded behind his lids, but he gritted his teeth and pushed harder. A flash of sunshine, the trill of feminine laughter, all gone in an instant.

Red. Why do I remember the color red? Why is this important to me?
He released his breath in a whoosh of frustration. Sweet laughter. Quicksilver eyes. Then nothing. He opened his eyes and rubbed his brow against the throbbing at his temples.

“Have ye remembered anything, lad?” Greum whispered in his ear as he collapsed onto the worn wooden chest next to him with a weary sigh.

Ferlie stared straight ahead, fixed on a point he could not see past. “Red, laughter, pain. Though usually I only remember the pain and go no further.”

Greum nodded. “Aye. Yer body isnae ready to remember what happened. ’Twas a fierce wound ye suffered. Ye nearly lost yer life.”

“I feel I lost something more precious than my life, Greum.” He braced against the pressure building in his chest, the dark cloud of dismay swelling to the point of unbearable pain. “I want to know what it was.”

* * *

“Ye want me to marry ye?” Gilda’s jaw dropped and she hastily shut it. “Why? Ye dinnae like me.”

“I dinnae like the changes in Ryan’s life. ’Twas difficult to adjust a ten-year friendship on the whims of a lass I dinnae know.”

“Ye blamed me for Ryan’s death.”

Conn’s eyes clouded. “Aye. ’Twas easier to share the blame than to shoulder it. It has taken a long time to realize ’twas neither my fault nor yers. We both did what we had to at the time.”

“I thank ye for that. But that doesnae mean we should marry.”

Rising to scoot onto the seat beside Gilda, Conn leaned forward. “Think of it, Gilda. Ye know I would raise Ryan’s bairn as my own. And the marriage would ally not two, but three clans.”

“And ye would still have a piece of Ryan,” Gilda whispered. His excitement alarmed her.

“Aye! The bairn needs a da in his life. ’Tis the perfect solution.”

His eager face made something twist inside her and she hated telling him no. She took a deep breath and stiffened her resolve.

“’Tis not the perfect solution for me.”

Conn started to speak, but she lifted a hand to stay his protest. “I dinnae need to marry just to give my bairn a da. If a lad, there are plenty of braw men here and at Scaurness to teach him. And I am not a pawn to link these three clans. They are already allied.”

“Gilda, it would give the bairn a family. A ma and a da who love him, care for him. Or her.”

With sorrow in her heart, Gilda shook her head. “Please dinnae be angry with me, Conn. Yer offer is verra kind—”

“Kind?” Conn bolted to his feet, a curl to his lip. “Ye think I would offer marriage to just any lass who claimed to carry Ryan’s bairn? He wasnae celibate before he met ye, Gilda. Ye cannae be that naïve!”

Gilda’s breath caught and ice washed through her veins. “Nae, I am not that naïve. But I dinnae think ye would say such a thing to me.”

Conn slumped onto the bench again, his head drooped low. “I beg ye to forgive me, Gilda. I know better than that. Ryan dinnae chase the lasses, though they found him from time to time. He was verra much in love with ye, and whatever happened before he met ye has no part in this.”

“Thank ye.” Shaken, his reaction only reinforced her decision to decline his offer.

“I said that because I was hurt. I have thought this through, and I am certain we could fare well together.” He met her eyes earnestly. “I wouldnae bring ye into a loveless marriage. My heart has changed. I see the sweet lass Ryan loved, and I wouldnae dishonor him by hurting ye.”

She laid a hand gently on his forearm. “Conn, I was desperately in love with Ryan. Ye deserve such in yer life, and I dinnae think I can give it. Truly, I am afraid to love like that again.” Tears swelled her throat. “It hurts too much.”

Conn stared at the ground at his feet. Overwhelmed by her emotions, Gilda sat beside him, pleating the fabric of her dress in dismay.

Finally, Conn rose. “I dinnae want to stay away. May I still visit? Ye and the bairn.”

Gilda mustered a smile. “Of course ye may. The bairn needs a braw uncle such as yerself.”

Conn cut his gaze to her. “An uncle? ’Tis all I can hope for?”

“Ye arenae in love with me, Conn MacLaurey. Ye are in love with the bairn.”

“I believe ye are wrong, Gilda Macraig. Verra wrong.”

* * *

Darkness was the pirate’s ally. The gloaming just before the moon rose, when starlight played tricks on men’s eyes and trust was a fragile commodity.

“They sighted the foundered ship a couple of hours ago.” Ferlie cast his voice low as Greum hobbled to the rail next to him. “’Tis just beyond the horizon. If no other ships approach, they will scuttle it tonight.”

“There is naught we can do?”

Ferlie shook his head. “I am always locked away below deck until time to bring the spoils aboard. But I cannae do this again. ’Tis not right.”

Greum tilted his head. “What do ye propose we do? They willnae trust either of us with weapons.”

“There are two of us this time.” Ferlie turned to the older man, determination on his face. “I have a plan.”

* * *

His shoulder hurt like hell, but it was just a bruise and worth the effort. The scuffle between himself and the first mate had convinced the pirate’s leader he’d make a fine asset on the night’s raid. Ferlie rolled his shoulder to ease the tension, then put the slight injury behind him. There was a more important task ahead.

Greum sidled over, a dirk in his hand. “Do ye think it will work?”

“The pirates arenae well organized. They are vultures, feasting on the carcasses of dying ships. Like vultures, they are also cowardly. If the crew of the other vessel shows enough resistance, I believe the pirates will retreat. They value their disreputable hides more than whatever treasure they may find aboard.”

“I am to release the grappling hooks, aye?”

Ferlie jerked his chin to the ship that showed as a dark stain on the lowering horizon. “It lists badly to port. We must swap ships.”

“Leaving this scurvy scum on yon sinking ship?”

“I expect a bit of resistance from both sides, but aye, that is the plan.”

Greum squared his thin shoulders. “Let us be at it, then.”

Slowly, they approached the foundered ship. It wobbled about like a child’s ill-formed toy atop the cresting waves. Three pirates showed themselves above the
Draigled Sparra’s
railing, light from swaying torches casting contorted shadows against the wooden hull. Across the water, dark forms moved about, illuminated from time to time by lanterns lashed bow and stern. At this distance it was difficult to tell how well-armed the ship was, but Ferlie knew those on board had to be frightened as they anticipated the eventual slide into the watery abyss even as much as they feared rescue by unscrupulous, mercenary pirates. No, his job would not be easy.

“Ahoy, the ship!” Eager for plunder, the pirate leader called out. Silence from the other ship lasted a few moments.

“
Ohé du navire! Parlez-vous française
?”

“’Tis a Frenchie ship, lads!”

Excited murmurs rose from the pirates huddled on the deck. Their leader braced his hands on the edge of the hull and bellowed across the distance. “Nae! Scots!”

“
Oui, monsieur l’capitaine
. We will converse in English.”

A ship’s length separated them now and Ferlie could see the faces of the men across from him, their skin muddy red in the lantern light and deeply slashed with shadows. Beside him, a pirate firmed the grip on his sword, the metal winking dully, pitted with hard use and little care. The odor of their unwashed bodies threatened to overpower as they huddled close together, mingling with the tang of salt water and fear.

His fingers choked the handle of his own weapon.

Suddenly, the words between the two men changed. Shouts rang out. Pirates bolted to their feet, grabbing metal hooks attached to ropes as they swarmed across the deck to the foundering ship. Swords held high, their battle cries filled the air. Hooks were flung across the dividing waters, hitting the other ship’s hull with deafening thuds like the clamor of pickaxes breaking ground for the soon-to-be-dead.

Poised on their ship’s railing, pirates ranged in eager anticipation. Across from them, swords slipped from scabbards, promising no easy prey.

Ferlie’s gaze slid from man to man, picking out their captain. His eyes lit on a burly shape near the base of the forecastle. Set apart by his clothing and the deference of his sailors, he radiated authority. The French ship collided with the
Draigled Sparra
as the grappling hooks did their work. The captain braced himself with a hand to the elevated deck and shrugged away any who would push him up the steps to safety. He unsheathed his sword with a steady hand and faced the devils invading his ship.

* * *

Ferlie gripped his sword, flexing his fingers around the worn grip. He did not question the seamless way the blade had become an extension of his arm or the ease with which he wielded the weapon. It made him feel alive, powerful. Battle lust still coursed through his veins as his heart pounded in his chest. Blood from several shallow cuts crusted as it dried. His muscles ached and his chest heaved, but he was alive and fiercely glad for it.

As the pirates boiled over the side of the foundered ship like scum from an unwatched pot, he had located the ship’s captain. Convincing him he was there to help had taken well-placed words and more than a bit of skilled swordplay before the harried captain had accepted the plan. And the work of the better part of a bloody hour to finally turn the tables and subdue the pirates.

’Twas a good thing, Ferlie mused, for after his part in the mutiny, his life wouldn’t have been worth a burnt bannock to the pirates.

He narrowed his eyes and surveyed the small group of passengers and crew now aboard the pirate ship. The captain strode slowly among them, offering a soft word or clasping a shoulder as he spoke to each one. His wife and two daughters were on the ship, sailing back to France from visiting family in Edinburgh, and mercifully unharmed. For that alone, Ferlie knew he could enlist the man’s help in anything. But what to ask?

Elsewhere, men hurried to get the ship under way. Cries from the pirates now aboard the listing ship drifted across the water. Ferlie wasted no sympathy on them. He sniffed the breeze, sensing a change in the weather. Stars sparked overhead, but wisps of clouds sped across the midnight sky.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped to one of the three women still standing amidships. Wrapped in their cloaks, they had been anonymous shapes, recognizable as women, though he had paid scant attention to them. With the stiffening breeze, one woman’s shawl slid free to her shoulders, spilling her hair about her. Caught in the flickering torchlight, it glinted of gold and fire. Red.

His breath caught. Flashes of memory crackled through his mind. His free hand flew to the side of his head in an attempt to slow the assault. A face, sweetly feminine, lips curved in laughter, the sun bright on her skin. Her form appeared, twirling about, her arisaid caught lightly at her elbows, her molten red curls fanned out around her.

Who is she?

* * *

Lissa bounded to Gilda’s side, full of youthful energy. “Who are ye looking for?” She stretched up on her toes and leaned over the edge of the parapet.

Gilda’s face heated. “No one special. ’Tis a beautiful day, aye?”

Her hands grasping the worn stone, Lissa extended her arms and swung gently back and forth. “Is it time for Conn to pay a call on ye?” she asked, her tone light and overly innocent.

Gilda swatted the girl’s arm. “How should I know what the MacLaurey man does? ’Tis none of my concern.”

Her bluff did not convince Lissa, who spun about, her back against the wall. “He has come to visit twice in the past month and a half. He doesnae come for yer da’s whisky, and he doesnae come to spend time with me.” She raised her eyebrows for emphasis. “He visits ye.”

“’Tis not me he wishes to see, but the bairn.”

“And the bairn willnae be here for another two weeks or more. Gilda, he visits ye.”

Gilda looked out over the fields surrounding the castle. To the north lay Ard, and to the west the vastness of the ocean. To the northeast was a man she’d never expected to see again after that disastrous day last autumn. Looking forward to his visit would not have crossed her mind two months ago. But she did.